


Electric Hounds and Drained Dogs

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Ruiner (Video Game)
Genre: Cat and Mouse, Chases, Choking, Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, Door Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Masks, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Strength Kink, the mask stays on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-15 08:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anonymous asked: yooo, Puppy from Ruiner is hot af and his mask is sick. could you write something for an reader fic that includes him relentlessly pursuing her, but not in a super creepy way, just very determined and open about what he wants. when/if they dick down, him tossing and lifting her around like she doesn't weigh anything, with grabbing hands (some restraining and ass/neck/wrist grabs) and come sloppy, sloppy sex would be p cool. you're the best <3A/N: Thank you for the request Anon! It's only taken me like a year to get to it. Lol. I hope you all enjoy this one because Puppy is totally hot as fuck. <3





	Electric Hounds and Drained Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).

The monorail is late no matter HEAVEN or HELL and tonight’s no different. Hags and CREEP-like lollers stand in rows, dotting the chipped LED lights embedded in the cemented pedestrian walk; dominos with their visor displays green with activity. 

Lambs… unaware that they’re standing in the slaughter line. Same as you. You’re all just a lens for EYE. Nutrients for Mother… and pawns for Sick Sisters. Knowing which one isn’t trying to screw you over is the same impossibility of one lamb spotting the wolf hidden among their herd. 

Gangrenous smog burps up between the storm drain slats, growing headier until five denizens simultaneously don painted breathers; snapping them around metal and flesh ears alike. 

You lick cold lips that taste of moist steel, relishing the olfactory disability that comes with lower face prosthetics, something you treated yourself to years back: lower face a high-cost blend of synthetic flesh and metal, that wrapped around the bridge of your nose and hugged beneath your cheekbones. 

You even paid extra to have old sinuses scooped out for meaty wires. Only thing below the nose still original was your long, sensitive tongue. The taste in the air comes, but at least the odor of Rengkok never bothers you beyond the point of pollution. The cost of cybernetics is well worth it to ward against the hazardous AQI. 

The only way you’ll get high is by choice, you think, skimming porcelain-glossed teeth against plush, cold lips again. Tonight, you need a downer of puffer-toxin because there’s only so much you can tolerate after operating gene-splice tubs all day. 

The gluttonous boss breathing down your neck for the last half of your shift helped little by way of nerves. He’d fuck you in a pulse beat and yes, you’re horny, but the ledge you’d have to cross to suffer that grease-slug and his fourth-generation skull-cap sweating with lust is in HELL. Sinking so low was never an option. 

Once the tube arrives, you’ll board it, breathe through your glossy nose until the vibrant purple apartment lights are coating your naked. Tonight, you’ll get lost with the angels. 

Four thugs down the line, someone hacks up a ball of blood and spits it down into the razor rails. 

Rengkok never was a great thing to huff, and a micro-mesh face mask only did so much. 

These sick fuckers shifting in their vid-glasses - masks secured - will need new lungs in a few years while yours were still pink, massive sacs of purified oxygen - blood a rich red and smooth as cream. Perfection maintained… fuck… once home you’re gonna lay back and let a servo-cock ram you into ineptitude. 

If only the putrid rail were ever on schedule. Already, you’re itching to feed the beast. 

For a second, your reality goes dark. You switch visuals to the left eye LCD screen, coated last year by back-alley bionic-surgoes, but before you can pull up the security footage for the monorails current location a pulse beat of red signals someone stepping into your personal bubble.

Too close…

The bare skin on your left arm runs cherry-hot. Even the black-light tattoos that should be dead scar tissue tickle at the proximity.

You blink away the fizzle of security feed and shift two dichotic eyes to the person foolish enough to leer.

A raindrop falls, momentarily obscuring your optics. Another slashes to the dingy, unkempt floor and another internal blink resets your sensors, so the pattering rain doesn’t distract you from the intruder. He’s heavy-shouldered and black against the red safety light above the empty, gaping maw of the tunnel - a tall, thick silhouette at the edge of a radiating red dwarf. 

Suddenly the servo-cock stashed beside your hydroponic koi-tower seems dusty. Only hot skin to skin will do… or a sentient cock at the very least.

Heat floods off him; disgustingly comforting in the clammy cold of the monorail station. The many crumpled wind walls and derelict ceiling invite the cold chills of the city. Above, the once working mirror skylight flickers. Years ago it used to replicate a beautiful noon sky with puffy clouds and blue oceans above, but tonight all it does is reflect pixelated scenery across the stranger’s oiled mask. 

He moved closer without truly moving. 

Despite the old rail station, you feel smothered. 

The claustrophobic cityscape heaves over your head as rain streaks and dribbles down. Everyone not lucky enough to stand beneath a chip of broken steel and glass grows evermore soaked. The stranger breathes forward - large and imposing and bursting with something violent.

Danger. Testosterone. Anonymity birthed by high-grade gunmetal and LCD glass. Thick thighs of pure muscle or perhaps… expensive air-tubes weaved by diamond filaments. 

A thirst rises above the fear for only for a moment before you note the rusty red crowbar in his fist; crusty end moistening in the rain puddle growing by his boots. 

‘He’ll be fun to picture later, but that’s it…’ a reasonable thought tells you. Dick isn’t worth your life. 

Try as you will to stand your ground - licking poly-steel lips until they taste like iron - his body heat doesn’t let up. Your bionic eye scans, reading an even ninety-nine degrees. 

Ignoring CREEPS is pointless, but this one isn’t a conglomeration of cheap synthetics and bare skin. Core temperature too high for that. He’s not a night worker judging by the jacket, mask and… bloody bat, but what does that mean in Rangkok? Not much.

He could be anyone, or he could be no one.

After two long seconds of mild assessment, you look away, facing the pulsating rail lights as they showcase the putridity swelling up from the sewer grates. There is little reason to engage him. With horror shows happening left and right, the risk is too high for the reward. Streets are never rosy in velvet veneers but the recent news and the killer with-

‘The mask…’

You shift, suddenly too wet for the soft, thin sheets of rain; sweat and arousal and fear. 

Your brain - as much mush as it is despite the wiggling mass of cables and needle clutching nodes - gives a sudden glow of activity - memories in spinal fluid. 

Another systematic look to the lingering stranger sticks your feet to the cement. Melted plastisol in phantom form anchors your boot heels, infecting the muscles above one inch at a time until you’re paralyzed; horrified… and yet…

With a mechanically smooth turn, the helmeted mask of glossy black meets static warning lights opposite the tunnel he obstructs. His lacking face twitches with static momentarily before absent eyes lock to yours. 

**WE?** \- backlit by a droplet of the tarnished gold in ink.

You nod, not thinking.

The monorail arrives ten minutes and twenty-two seconds late, but the sudden wave of stale air as it's aluminum tube shrieks before its awaiting sheeple affects you little. One eye unconsciously corks and tunes to the news feed - LCD contact lense alight - with this stranger's description. 

Massacre. CREEP-boss declared! Liberation. Freedom. Blood… shed… in… mass…

'An electric hound on the run.'

He steps closer - more heat but not the overpowering stench of masculine mechanics. For the first time in eight months, you wish for the reek of HEAVEN to catch a hint of whatever rolls off him, whether that be sweat, blood, or an odor of primate memory. His murderer status has little effect on your cable-coated nerves knowing his MO isn't lone bionic femmes on their way home after trading morality for a paycheck.

"Ever hear of coronal mass ejection? Solar EMP for the layman."

The  **WE?** fades into two boiling red eclipses - like eyes but not eyes. 

"Rectangular pulse discharges are cheap, quick and effective," you swallow hard enough to feel the find mesh bridge between your upgraded jaw and original cheek tissue, "Deterrents are nice, but to blow up cranial circuitry takes a double or a triple…"

The stranger skirts his right boot against the cement, leaning further in until his loose jacket hem tickles the bare diamond patch in your jumpsuit; just curving the hip.

Bass-heavy sirens mimic the slow deceleration of the rail until it halts with a metal screech that fizzles active static on his mask, momentarily blinking a digital face with metal teeth in a distorted grin.

The both of you stand still, barely touching but barely separated while everyone else rooted to the platform straightens up and boards.

You wet soft metal with a pink tongue and stand your ground, "If you're looking for a good time I'll take you over a servo-cock..."

His helmeted mask sways in study, turning down then up as if taking you all in. He likes what he sees; otherwise, he wouldn't have that beginning shadow between his legs where the jeans meet in old-fashioned comfort. 

Digital noise fizzles to life and with it, the mask reads -  **YOUR NEW PORNOGRAPHY** \- now stacked vid-footage of manipulated faces in ecstasy. Twisted visages pour behind the word. The proposition couldn't be more precise.

"Hmm," you think allowed. You're game - as though you hadn't been the moment you checked him out. Never were you one to go into back alleys without protection. 

"Twenty times EPW in this hand," you lift your right palm, waving it until the weaved pads of micro-thin gold conductors catch the red behind him, "if you fuck up my face, I'll fuck up yours."

He breathes hard. It's nothing you can hear, but the bulk of his chest lifts with the motion and slowly deflates with the exhale; slow and overwhelmed.

A nod of the mask. A twitch of static across the moist-black LED with  **FETCH, PUPPY** blown up in all white.

With a metallic smile and a turn of your gripper boots, off you go. 

The metal rebar in his fist screeches across broken, damp cement. 

Heavy footfalls stamp the world around you. The masked maniac is fast, but you're faster. Though it doesn't escape your notice that while you might be quicker, should and when he catches you, there'll be little challenge… but that's what you want. It's what you need. And, judging by the electric sheep he throws aside in his hunt for you, it's what he needs too. 

What a lovely change of plans, you think, skidding across damp painted pavement the color of yellow jackets. The construction zone - abandoned at this time of night - speeds past you. 

A quick look behind shows… nothing?

Slowly, melancholic, you fall into a jog and standstill. The rain sprinkles down in strings of neon pink, picking up the glow of billboards upon advertisements upon ordinances. The lights above are garish and blinding, but the slick muddy gravel space you pant and stand upon is dark and empty. 

You lick rain off your metallic lips and frown. 

"Shit." Either this is a game of bloodshed you've fallen for, and he's about to appear from your blind spot to slam that crowbar upon your very human head or… he's not playing fair. An even worse thought is that he’s played you for a fool and this was just a sick little game to make you run off into oblivion, only to walk home with a tail between your legs. 

The rain gradually becomes a curtain, masking HELL with lace. You wait for several heartbeats, decide this was too good to be true anyhow, and start padding back towards the rail station. With any luck, you'll grab a spot on the tube… otherwise, it's-

"Haa-!" Air kicks out your lungs as two hands snatch your arms from behind and sling your spine into a barrel chest of dense muscle. 

You don't scream - don't dial in an E-SOS. You let the stranger drag you back across muddy construction debris until the neon glow fades, making the rain the brightest thing in front of you. 

Turning to bite, unsure at first who's got you in their clutches, you glimpse one of the hands denting the ink-heavy skin of your left arm - fading neon pings off metal fingers. It's him, but ninety-eight percent of you knew that already because fear isn't one of the emotions weighing in your belly.

Half-heartedly, you twist your body against him and buck backward; grinning shiny teeth to the drifting lights of HEAVEN monolith. There's a knot of pressure against your spine that's not a thick belt buckle… but the rising cock beneath. That grin stretching your soft-metal lips grows.

"Heh! This is really! - out of my," a gasp as a boot kicks your knee forward, making your heels drag against the uneven ground, "Ow… mother-boarded, son of a bitch."

He doesn't say a word in retort - muted by whatever gave him that galaxy-black face no doubt… or maybe a stranger like him knew words were pointless when hunting for an unorthodox fuck like this. Perhaps, you could take a page out of that book, but telling him he's an 'OP bitch in grunge' is much more fun, especially when it makes his hands dig harder - hard enough to leave long-lasting bruises behind.

"No rougher than this, Boss," you warn him, feeding currents into your palms that crackle as raindrops drip off your bent fingertips.

A sound like a wire-fried groan reverberates in his helmeted mask, vibrating the back of your head. It's either the threat or the nickname that got him hot; hips banging against your back with each step backward and away from the city hub. 

Rainwater sleuths down your face. It runs in your eyes - the LCD orb absorbing digital snow - and chills the bare diamond patches of naked skin around your hips. Heat spills between your thighs when another techno sound of greed rattles inside him. Your glass optic lens shows you sudden images of carnage.

Busted wires and weeping veins. A face running 'Hello Darkness' on a loop as rewinding silo lights expose splatters of blood and viscera. An eye in the sky. EYE. Flesh blossoming hematoma-red under coiled fists of metal and fingerless leather. Bowing silhouette of masculine revenge, staring… heaving with unspent rage…

Your skin tingles from your finger bones, up your arms where his grip burns. The sensation glides straight over shoulder, neck, and into that eye that glitches with images. A very human sweat breaks out beneath the layer of rain as he hacks your lense, showing you images both seen and observed - a very voyeuristic understanding of what's about to happen to you.

It's a warning. This might be Rangkok, and he could drag you to the outskirts of HELL and leave you a bloody mass to be washed away by the neon rainstorm, but he won't. Whatever score he wanted to settle slipped through his fingers and this - you - is how he's gonna drain that absolute necessity to his frayed sanity. So, truthfully, this could be worse than a swift curb stomp and kick to the sewers.

"Let me go," you wheeze; shivering in his grip.

The hack retreats like a snake pulling back it's wet fangs. For a moment the retracted current throws off your equilibrium, forcing you into the front of his body with a lurch, but a furious blink grounds you once more.

Again you tell him, "Let. Me. Go."

Hesitation. One… two…

On three, the stranger releases you to the sudden rush of blood flooding into your forearms and fingers. Two thoughts war for several seconds: to run away and fuck yourself at home, or give chase and really let this masked psychopath burn off steam. You remember the last, unpleasant fuck you had and grin polished teeth to the high beams of the city.

"Fetch, Puppy," you mock his earlier message with a bright smile and throw yourself into a mad dash for the backways of South Rangkok where too many cement coffins are waiting for you to slip up and make the wrong move.

The slop that's been made by construction debris, brackish oil, and the polluted rain, give you a headstart. Gripper boots are great for working on the lubricated floor in GeneBank_z second sector, but they're perfect in this muck. You run - rib-length windbreaker snapping around your sides as you go. 

Metal bangs off something thick and sturdy. You imagine rebar wacking the filth-laden ground as he stomps after you, regaining his balance. There's no reason to look behind you and check. Once you make it to the concrete throat that'll lead to the mouth of the city, the advantage in your footwear will be null.

The darkness of the abandoned construction yard fades - the muddy ground transitions to slick concrete and painted graffiti layered over the years and decades. You hit rain-slick cement, skid for a heartbeat and half-jump over a toppled shopping cart into the fluorescent-yellow tunnel that once serviced traffic now riding monorails.

The stranger's rebar screams against the ground as he chases you into the dry guts of Rangkok, somewhere between North and South. You sweat rainwater and swallow parched adrenaline. Behind you, that shopping cart crashes into the sloped wall, echoing chaos faster than you can outrun him.

Without a thought to the dangers, you laugh, gasp and turn down a fork in the tunnel.

Old security hubs litter the ceiling, some still working if the signal to your lens is correct, but there's no time to hack into one and spot where he's at… or how close he is because he sounds close already and there's no delaying the inevitable.

His footsteps vibrate beneath your own; pursuing you at will despite the rumble of the city above your heads. Dust and grime rain down as the outside world begins to thunder; rolling a disk track of sounds through the tunnel of moist sunlight. 

You laugh the word 'yes' under your breath and take a hard right down a skinny alley of red light. A prefabricated door of polymer and rusted metal meets you before you can understand what's happening. You bounce off it with a shock of pain; panting and-

A body slams you up against the door; hot and hard and determined.

The stranger fists the back of your jacket and snatches your neck up with warm steel fingers. Flakes of metal and a lock mechanism that's beyond cracking rotates away as he twists you to face him. The mask is nothing but frozen ferrofluid and reflected red from the exit light above the door behind you. 

His chest rises and falls - one enormous expanse that strains the jumpsuit beneath. On instinct, you shove at the hard muscles and folds of his open leather jacket. Crimson bulbs make the collar appear desaturated and dull, but as you struggle, a stamped 'H' shows itself beneath the damp outerwear.

Working as a gene-splicer, you know too well what that means.

"Fuck! You're a HOST-ah!" His cybernetic fingers hiss and squeeze, strangling the blood in your brain and oxygen out your lungs. Your cheeks puff with pressure despite your modded lower face merely gaping in stupidity. How had you not noticed it at the monorail station?

It changes little, except to chip at some of this sodden lust, moving aside a little excitement and fear for pity. The emotion must show in your eyes or the way your slim brows pull and bunch because  **SHUT YOUR PRETTY MOUTH** screams in bold white on his mask as a murky face appears… grins and dissipates like smoke.

Door mechanics dig into your spine and upper ass as he walks you further against the error of your ways. 

Despite the way he chokes you, you smile; twitching with moist clouds masking thought.

He groans, shifts his boot against the door behind you with a thunk, and presses his groin to your weak thigh. Pressure lessens around your neck, letting in soft, desperate puffs of air. Your mind swims - cunt slick - and scramble half-blind at his half-open collar for the plastic zipper that covers his skin.

If he's a HOST, then it explains why he's of perfect bulk, density, and form. No one paid for a genetically compatible brother or sister unless they were gonna get all the mod-cons. How he escaped his incubator is beyond you, but good luck on his part… because the sickness of such programs made Rangkok what it was: valuable. Rarely ever did expensive things like him get lost. 

Any pity on your face is wiped away by a finger-gloved hand jerking your windbreaking off your shoulder.

A comical enough puppy dog with pixel hearts walks across his mask -  **BARK BARK** \- before bobbing eclipses of twin supernovas stare like eyes in a black sky.

You swallow beneath the vice of metal fingers, find the zipper below his collar bones and yank it down. Not for the first time tonight do you wish the olfactory sensors came with your cybernetic implants. He probably smelt heady with sweat and grease… although you can taste just fine…

A thirsty swipe of your tongue and a half-lidded gaze makes the supernovas pulse. 

He releases your throat and nearly tears the threading on your jacket as he tugs it down your arms. The lightweight fabric hits the floor - the skin suit beneath comes off like a second dermis, exposing nothing but your skin beneath. 

An elbow bruises your ribs. Fingers crack against his stomach. You both fight to push away the weaved-material from each other; headless. 

Red washes over valleys and dips of compact muscle, nearly hairless but for a light dusting at the bottom of his navel. Scars or bubbling tissue rise and catch deeper shades of blood-light, right down to the darkness and shadows painting his upper groin. 

"Have you-" the words fade softly with a handful of your naked backside - squeezed by flesh and steel in equal strength. 

You step on your toe, kicking away a boot and lift a leg so the stranger can remove it from your suit but your ankle catches and instead of working it out with patience, he grunts - nearly human - and presses your naked knee beneath your breast. 

"Done this before?" You ask; voice a timbre of energy. 

**_NO FILE**

No chance of infection, you think to yourself before reaching between your legs to the cock trapped in a jumpsuit crease. It's large, of course, it would be, but it's perhaps too large. 

You almost scoff, imagining the hubris his HOST applicant had - and yes 'had.' There's no way the stranger's brother is walking HEAVEN or HELL any longer. 

Another swipe of your metallic lips sets him off. He doesn't turn you around and fuck you from behind. He doesn't cut or tear the suit stretching between your trapped ankle and hip. The stranger presses your knee harder against your ribs, grabs his cock around your own grip, and shoves your hips together. 

A bend of his knees, a helping hand on your part and the mushroom cap of cock nestles deep - pop, plunge and-

"Haaaa…"

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

His masked helmet scrolls the words with bleeding supernova eyes and canine teeth broken in a snarl of twisted PPI. 

Circulation slows in your bent leg, but stuffed cock is all you feel as his hips rise while his hands drag you down on inches and inches of genetically perfected dick. 

You brace a hand on his collar only to have it shrugged off and his body molded to yours. The rising, heaving chest of bursting muscle itches your tender nipples. His metal fingers cinch your hip - a thumb pulling your vulva open.

"... fetch," you gasp, grip his shoulders - fabric and muscle fibers alike - and take that first real thrust with a swallow. 

It burns. He's burning up. The blood beneath his cock is boiling - circuitry crackling. Your palms vibrate, but there's no reason to fry him while he followed the rules. 

"Fetch, Puppy!"

He snarls like an imitation of a pre-recorded dog fight and fucks. 

Puppy fucks like you're unbreakable - fucks like you're made of the same parts as him… he fucks until electrical frequencies drum out your palms and static images of memories not your own assail your LCD retina. 

The same array of anarchy in swaths of vivid blue and hot red feed into your vision as he hacks and fucks, perhaps unaware of the first; driving his cock through the awkward angle until it feels like your entrails will need servicing after tonight. 

HELL only wished it could see the violent tumble of jacking thrusts and wet smacks as a cunt is plundered like yours is by him. The organic drip of sex is a caricature of what's become the norm… and to think a servo-cock had been preferable at one point…

A thrust of pain sends your head back against the door with deadbolts digging into your scalp. It's a sweet rip of sensation that reminds you you're alive. There's more to this body than implants and the fade of a high. You are more than nerves that require a banal orgasm to release. 

You're human. He is human… despite the 'H' on his jumpsuit. 

Fuck the system. Fuck GeneLab_z. Fuck it all, but mostly… fuck you.

"Fuck me," you beg through tight teeth; needing pain and pleasure and the thrill of destruction. 

Puppy bows up, pausing mid-thrust, and rips your tangled suit in shredded ends like elastic worms. 

He palms your rear, and without thinking, you jump into his hands, knowing without words or visuals what he intends. Fingers squeeze your ass as you wrap your legs around his slim waist - lock ankles - and hang on tight. 

The furious slaps of cock, upwards and deeper than you should want, seize your muscles as sensation overhauls the system. 

White light bursts across his mask, fading into a spill of yellow with white letters  **WE ARE ONE…** as digital grunts and sound bites of animal snarls punctuate each hilted slap of cock. For a moment, his fucking stops - a pause to regain his stance before grabbing your poly-steel jaw with his fleshy-fingers.

You stare and wonder if there's a human face behind the digital billboard or just more mechanics surrounding a brain. That thought lasts a millisecond before it fades, noticing the thumb caressing your cheekbone. The gesture is too intimate… perhaps that's why he ends it with the sudden pummeling as hips snap and cock sinks, drags and sinks again. Harder - faster - deeper - never-ending.

"Hurt me," you gasp.

'Kill me,' you think.

Puppy does neither. 

He holds your face so close the warmth of his mask makes you sweat and rocks your body against his until you can't overthink the motions anymore and - and you let yourself go. 

You cum in a twitching mess of contracting muscles and light fluids that lubricate his dick like a piston working for an engine.

Your vision glitches. Static rains in one eye as twinkle lights float in the other. 

The pleasure is no less intense than if you'd been home alone with that servo-cock… but it's a warm spreading explosion and rush of neurochemicals. Oxytocin leaks into your synapses, firing off emotions you'd never feel for a hunk of metal.

The chem-cocktail barely fades when his thumb drags down your glossy lip, pulls the mod from porcelain-painted teeth and probes. You reach out your tongue, staring at his masked-helmet of darkness, and taste the rich flavors off his thumb. 

When he cums, it's inside you… his thumb tucked between your lips; gripped by your teeth. A warm, gentle fullness so different from the manic - almost sadistic - pounding of cock that'd lead to it, soothes new aches. 

You gasp around his thumb, breathing between teeth and a polished nose as thick cum overflows and leaks down the curves of your ass. 

Upwards raining static waves across his mask. Someone's face grins at you - something twisted and melted. The word  **US** appears without a question mark. 

"I know you're not sterile," you mutter around his thumb, still lapping away layers of rust, blood and anything else he's had his hands in… but that's okay…

"HOSTS are perfect…" his fingers squeeze in warning, but it's weak due to his orgasm, "and… you're still hard."

He dips his helmet down as if he can see his cock where it's buried inside you still. The  **US** is fizzled out for  **XOXO** in a violent spatter of pixelated blood. 

You smile lazily around his thumb, give it a sour suck, and grab his perspiring throat, relishing the gentle… but quickening… rock of his hips once again.

Tomorrow you'll be spiteful and sore, but tonight, Puppy needs a treat, and you've got a few up your sleeve…

"Fetch."

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

**OWN YOU**

**… OWN YOU**

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLR](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brimbrimbrimbrim)   
[DISCORD](https://discord.gg/BS4uvMK)   
[CURIOUS CAT](https://curiouscat.me/brimbrimbrimbrim)   
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